by Sadie Grubor
The sadness dissolves back to anger. Spinning around, he yanks open my apartment door and storms out. No matter how prepared I am for the slam, the noise still makes me jump. A swirl of emotion breaks loose inside me.
"Mom?" Lucas calls quietly from the hall.
"Yeah?" I try to sound as reasonable as possible.
"Is everything okay?" he asks, his voice closer.
"Everything is…" I breathe through my nose, exhaling the urge to burst into tears. Swallowing my feelings, I turn to my son. "Everything's fine."
"Where did Jackson go?" His eyes narrow, suspicious.
"He has things he needs to deal with." It's vague, but honest.
Lucas stands completely still, a look of apprehension on his face.
"It’s fine, Lucas. Go finish your game. It will be time to turn it off soon." I force a smile and turn, walking to the kitchen.
I begin rinsing out cups and downsizing the pizza boxes for the trash. When I finish with the small tasks, I look over my shoulder and find Lucas gone. With a deep breath, I lock the apartment door on the way to the bathroom.
In the shower, I break, hiding my tears and quiet sobs under the warm spray.
Chapter Twelve
Jackson
The heavy knock on the door is followed by the familiar bellow of Julia.
"Jackson, we have to be out of this hotel in twenty minutes." She knocks three more times.
Letting the hot water rinse away the alcohol seeping from my pores, I close my eyes. Behind my lids, all I see is Liza. Her blue eyes swimming in hurt. A hurt I put there—again.
"Jackson, come on," Julia pleads, followed by one muted thud.
Rubbing my face beneath the spray, I groan.
"Give me ten," I shout in irritation, pressing my palms against the white tiles.
Christ, I fucked up, but it's all so much. Too much.
I waited days for Chris to let me know what the fuck is going on and the moment he says breast cancer, I lose my shit.
"Mom has breast cancer," I say, testing the words out loud. My tongue wants to choke on them. "Fuck," I shout and turn off the water. Pushing off the wall, I slam my back against the tile instead.
Mom has cancer and kept that shit to herself for almost a month before even telling Nicholas. Then they decide not to tell anyone until more tests and a course of treatment is selected.
I snort, resting my head back against the shower wall. Fuck them!
I jerk away from the wall, climb out, and wrap a towel around my waist. Catching a glimpse of the remnant lines I snorted last night, I secure the cloth before lining up a few to get me going this morning.
"I'm going to need it just to get through this talent show bullshit." The justification sounds weak to my own ears. The shaking in my hands, something I ignore.
Rubbing away the residue from my nose and lip, I enter the bedroom to get dressed.
Julia immediately turns, giving me her back.
"Sorry, I didn't know you were coming out."
"You can look," I tease, feeling much better than a few minutes ago. "I know you want to."
"I'm good," she mumbles, making her way to leave.
"Hey," I call out, stopping her. "I'm only teasing."
"Yeah." Keeping her head down, she walks out.
I close the door behind her, agitation lessening my high. Who the fuck is she to give me attitude? Everyone thinks they have shit figured out.
My thoughts travel to Liza. Guilt and anger rage a battle for top emotion.
Releasing the towel to the floor, I slip into my clothes. Securing my “Cock Fight” belt buckle in place, I retreat back into the bathroom to snort away everyone's bullshit attitude and assumptions about me.
The drive to the studio is delayed by Monday morning traffic. Julia is anxious and providing updates to the producers regarding our arrival while I feel fucking fantastic, sprawled in the back of the limo, head back on the seat.
"Are you actually happy or just higher than the Hollywood sign?" Julia asks, her question saturated in criticism.
"You're cute when you're all worked up," I respond without lifting my head or opening my eyes. Fuck, I feel so goddamn good.
She huffs, but it doesn't kill my mood.
Upon arrival, she ushers me around from the lobby to the conference room. From there, we are escorted to our secret booth. It's all kinds of James Bond, so I decide to act the part.
Folding my hands together and stretching out my pointer fingers, I slide against the wall, singing the Goldfinger theme song.
"What are you doing?" Julia hisses, eyes wide and face red.
"Come on." I drop my hands to the sides of my body. "Goldfinger is by far the best Bond movie. You have to know the song."
She stands, mouth agape.
Raising my brow, I give her my best come-on look. Her lips twitch before a smile splits her mouth, showing her teeth.
"Come on," she giggles.
Taking my arm, she pulls me down the hall to where our escort awaits.
Showing us into the room, my eyes settle on Gemma.
"So glad you could join me," she says, her irritation evident.
"There was traffic." I shrug, dropping into the chair next to hers.
"Look at me," she orders, setting a pen and notepad down hard on the edge of the sound table.
"Why?" I take a notepad Julia hands out for me, keeping my eyes off Gemma.
"Goddamn it," she growls. "How high is he?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," Julia snaps back. "It's enough for him to play James Bond in the hallway."
"Hey," I spin in the chair and raise my arms, "that was our special thing."
Julia rolls her eyes, taking a seat on a chair in the far corner of the room.
"Christ, Jackson," Gemma mumbles.
"We have work to do." I spin back around toward the table. "You can pray to me later."
She gives a half snort, half laugh.
"Bring lots of coffee. When he crashes, it ain't gonna be pretty," Gemma says to someone, probably Julia.
I feign a gasp, and follow with, "I'm always pretty."
"Your eyes are bloodshot, face flushed red, dark circles, and your nose looks like Christmas." Gemma purses her lips, raising one brow.
"Christmas?" I furrow my brow.
"Red as Rudolph and covered in snow," she quips before picking her notepad back up. "We're on contestant number five, in case you're interested."
Annoyed with the lectures and attitude, my anger levels spike.
"Don't act like this shit matters so much to you," I sneer.
"It does matter, Jackson," Gemma counters. "This is my fucking job. It. Matters. And what I don't need is to be partnered up with someone who's too fucking high to get shit done."
"Fuck you," I growl. "You don't know what I have going on."
"You aren't the only one to ever get dumped or cheated on, Jack!" Gemma slams her notebook down. "Grow a fucking pair and get over the little tramp. Why ruin yourself for someone who didn't care enough not to jump on someone else's dick the moment you guys were apart? Huh?"
I flinch from her words. They're harsh, painful to hear, and partly right. But this isn't about fucking Laney.
"I don't give a shit about her," I admit out loud. The truth behind the words surprises me into silence.
"Then what's your problem? The model bitch causing problems with your extracurricular activities? Boo-fucking-hoo." She crosses her arms over her chest, staring at me over her black-rimmed glasses.
"My fucking mom has cancer," I shout, and watch Gemma's face relax. "She's known for months, but didn't think she needed to share that shit. Instead, I find out last night, after all her tests and the decision for a double mastectomy had been made."
"Jackson," Gemma's voice softens, "I'm so sorry."
She places her hand on my arm, but I pull away from the sentiment.
"I am sorry," she says, her words a bit harder, "but it's still not worth it. Your mom w
ould kick your ass if she knew you were—”
"Why should I tell her shit?" I raise a brow in challenge. "She didn't think I should know about her being sick," I shrug, "she doesn't need to know about my harmless fun."
"It's not harmless. You're not the same." Gemma's voice is quiet and sad.
I'd be lying if I said it didn't affect me, but I hit the mic button, blowing the conversation off.
"Who's next?" I ask the studio producer working with us today.
"Contestant number six just arrived," he informs.
"Jackson?" Gemma tries once more.
"We have a job to do," I turn hard eyes on her, "and I don't want to be the reason you don't get your fucking job done."
My attention back on the soundboard, I wait for the first of many headache-inducing performances to begin.
I'm right about the headache. By number twenty-four, I'm on my second dose of ibuprofen and fifth cup of coffee. Not all of them are horrible, not all are even bad—hell, some are pretty fucking good—it's the constant music, the replaying of the same bad songs, and the lack of reception to our coaching grinding my last nerve.
Julia sets a bottle of red liquid on the table next to me and walks away.
"Gatorade?" I ask her back.
"The electrolytes will help with the headache." She sits back into her chair, iPad in her lap.
"Thanks," I say.
She gives a small nod, not looking at me.
"I don't think she knows what to say to you," Gemma offers. "Sort of the way I don't right now."
I take a deep breath and exhale, turning to Gemma.
"Just forget about it and let's get this shit done. I need to talk to the producers and arrange travel back home."
Gemma stops my hand before I press the mic button.
"You're leaving?" Her eyes search my face.
"I'm going home to see my mom face-to-face. If they can't make arrangements around this, then I'm out of the show." I shrug.
She nods, pressing the mic button and asking for the next contestant.
Uncapping the bottle of red liquid, I drink greedily in hopes of easing the ache in my skull. Julia and Gemma both watch my every move, a transparent attempt to keep me sober.
What I wouldn't give for a hit right now…
I close my eyes and sigh at the thought as the stripped down sound of Toxic fills the room. Then the voice fills the room, reaching deep inside me. Her voice is unmistakable, husky, sexy, and hypnotic.
"Fuck, this girl is good," Gemma says, writing notes on her pad.
Her voice feels like familiar fingers dancing over my skin.
"Are you okay?" Gemma asks, but I can't focus on anything.
My chest rises and falls, my heart beats erratically, and my dick hardens uncomfortably.
Snake Charmer.
Skull pounding, dick hard, heart pounding an angry beat against my ribs, I shove out the chair. Julia squeals and Gemma curses at my sudden movement.
"What the hell, Jack?" Gemma snarls, standing from her chair.
She's a contestant. Liza is a fucking…did she already know I'd be on the show?
I stride to the studio room door, the hinges protesting when I yank it open.
"Jack—” The door slamming into the wall cuts Julia off.
"It's her," I growl.
"Stop him!" Gemma calls as I exit the room.
How could she know I was a judge? It was kept secret. Our interviewers weren't even allowed to mention it without fear of a lawsuit.
Digging my fingers into my hair, I storm through the hallway, my steps sounding like angry echoes.
She couldn't have known. It's impossible.
The tightness in my chest eases for just a moment.
Grabbing the first door handle, I shove it open. Empty.
"Jackson!" Julia and Gemma yell in unison.
"You can't just—”
I shove the next door open, silencing Julia.
"What the fuck?" One of two sound techs turns toward me. "You can't just barge in here! We're in the middle of recording."
Ignoring him, I step in and look through the glass. Not her.
Moving on, I reenter the hallway and run into Julia, a man in all black standing next to her.
"Jackson, what's wrong?" She attempts concern.
It's fucking patronizing.
Stepping around her, I continue to hunt her down.
Red. The thought stops me cold. Fucking Red knew. He'd tell that girl he's fucking in a heartbeat. And she's loyal to Liza. Loyal enough to give her the inside scoop for this show.
Heat rises from my stomach and over my chest, choking my throat. Gulping down a breath, I charge forward on my mission.
"Miss, I have to stop him." A deep voice comes from behind me.
I move quicker, reaching the next door before security reaches me.
Gripping the handle, I shove. Locked.
I raise my fist and large, heavy hands wrap around my forearm, pulling me away from the door.
"Get off me," I protest, shoving the man off.
The force is enough for him to release my arm and smack the wall across from me.
"Don't you fucking touch me," I warn.
A door opens and voices carry out, catching my attention.
My eyes lock onto Liza. Her eyes widen and lips part.
A storm of lust, need, and want rages within me just from the sight of her.
Her mouth opens to speak, but my approach silences her.
The way I want her, need her, knowing she possibly used me for the show, morphs my anger to rage. I hate it. I hate the way she makes me need her.
Fucking snake charmer.
Pushing into her personal space has her stepping back against a wall.
"Hey, man," the security guy calls out.
"Is this how you play your game?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.
She tries to move, but I trap her with my arms on both sides of her body. Surprise whitens her face.
"Jackson," she starts, her voice a worried whisper, "back up."
"Is it, Liza?" I press, bringing my face closer to hers.
Sweat forms on my upper lip, a combination of heavy breathing and sobering.
"What game?" Her eyes boldly meet mine.
I snort.
"Don't play stupid." Taking my left hand from the wall, I trace her cheek with my finger.
"I'm not. There's no game, Jackson." Defiance tightens her jaw.
"Who told you about me, Red or that bitch he's fucking?"
"You're high, aren't you?" she scoffs, shoving my hand away from her.
I immediately miss touching her. This just pisses me off more.
"Quit fucking evading the question," I sneer.
"No one told me about you!" she snaps. "I wish someone had." Her voice drops to a whisper and she closes her eyes, pain creasing her face.
"So, you thought you'd fuck your way to the finals or winner's circle?" The poisonous question leaves my lips.
Her eyes snap open. Pain, hurt—fuck, again with the hurt—and then fire.
"Move," she commands.
"Your game is good." Grabbing her thigh, I squeeze to emphasize “good”. "Maybe if you fuck all the judges they'll be just as infatuated with you."
My head snaps left from the force of her hand.
"You're a bastard," she says, the contemptuous words filled with pure venom.
Keeping my eyes on the wall to the left, I seeth.
"You want to know who told me about you, Jackson?"
I clench my jaw. I fucking knew it.
"You did!" Her temper flares.
I snap my head back, meeting her angry eyes.
"When you mentioned it on the phone last night." She shakes her head. "That's when I found out and I didn't think it was a great time to mention it."
My anger lowers to a nervous simmer.
"I guess I was wrong. I should've told you then. I mean…fuck it, I should just add it to the other shit you have going
on." Her voice is hard, cold.
I hate it.
Guilt rises like a flurry of hornets in my stomach. I raise my hand to cup her face.
This time, the rejection is hers to deliver. She slaps my arm down.
"Don't. Fucking. Touch. Me," she seethes, accentuating every word. Every one of them like a knife stabbing my soul.
What have I done?
"Liza—”
"Don't." She shoves my chest, causing me to stumble back. "I don't want this."
Breathing becomes painful, restricted.
"Keep your drama and your baggage." She waves a hand in the air, motioning over me. "You need to deal with your shit." Closing her eyes, she shakes her head. "I can't do this back and forth with you."
I step forward and her eyes snap open. She puts a hand up, stopping me.
"You're like a razorblade, Jackson. And I'm not thick-skinned enough to survive you." Tears rest at the corners of her eyes.
Fuck!
"I'm sorry," I blurt. The words are simple, but I've never meant anything more in my entire fucking life.
"Sorry is just a word." She shrugs and the movement jars one tear loose. "It's like a band-aid with you."
My eyes track the tear trailing over her smooth, porcelain cheek, until it drips from her jaw. My vision blurs.
"Take care of yourself."
I blink, clearing the blur when tears escape.
Two steps forward is as far as I get before she stops me with a look and turns, pushing by onlookers.
Of its own accord, my body propels forward, needing to go after her.
Four hands press against my chest. I refocus on my surroundings, finding Gemma and Julia pushing against me.
"Let her go," Gemma says softly.
"I don't think I can." A humorless laugh escapes me.
"She needs space, Jack." Gemma wraps an arm around mine, leading me back to the sound studio.
I take a deep breath and pull my arm from hers.
"Where are you going?" Julia asks, her question riddled with panic.
"Restroom," I answer without looking back.
Locking the multi-stall room, my shaky hands retrieve the last of my coke from my back pocket. I line it up on the counter, catching a glimpse of myself before leaning over and snorting the rails. Straightening, I keep my eyes closed, not wanting to risk seeing the truth of what I've become.
